


Half Asleep

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: GUNTP Bonus Material [5]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Confessions, If You Can Call Wade Wilson's Extensive Rambling a Confession, Light Angst, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Snowed In, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 19:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21041867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: After a mission that goes less well than any of them would have liked, Frank just wants to stay warm and get some sleep.





	Half Asleep

**Author's Note:**

> Quid Pro Quo verse, this would be set way off in the future, like probably a year or more after the events of Settle Up. It's also like, 4.5k of me circling around actual emotional maturity from anyone involved while completely fucking up a perfectly good snowed-in trope.

It was never a great idea to go out blind. Limited intel, unfamiliar terrain, uncertain access to communications and equipment. Given that this was far and away from Frank's usual fights, not exactly in line with his usual run of enemy, he should have just passed on this when Cable called and offered him in. 

Except it wasn't exactly _outside _of his usual purview either. And jobs with Cable and Wilson tended to be fun, brought in a little extra cash -- not sorely needed but certainly helpful -- and gave him a chance to step back from things he was getting too close to. He wouldn't go so far as to say Cable and Wilson gave him perspective, but they _did _give him an excuse to put some distance between himself and his war, so he could refocus and find perspective on his own. 

And maybe it was a foolish thing to do, but he trusted them. They'd worked enough jobs together, a nice, neat little team of three, moving together with the sort of efficiency Frank would have expected from a unit with years of experience with each other on their sides. They cleaned house, and with very few exceptions, they did it without any one of them taking serious injury. 

So, Frank had packed a bag and now here they were in fuck-off nowhere, Cable unconscious, Wilson short an arm and a leg, and Frank left to pick up the pieces on his own, run a perimeter check, secure the shitty hunting cabin they'd scoped on entry as a potential fallback should things go sideways. He has to put up with Wilson's brittle, biting, and entirely false cheer as he hauls Cable up onto the back of a UTV and then goes back to literally pick up the pieces Wade left behind, because they might as well be optimistic that the cabin have not just access to clean water but duct tape as well.

The problem is, Frank grumbles through it all, he recognizes how fucked up the whole job is, but he's not exactly mad about it. They took a hit, but they'd done what they'd come here to do and the enemy wasn't walking away worse off only because the enemy wasn't walking away at all. Even missing half his limbs, Wilson was a damn good shot -- one of his better qualities, in Frank's opinion, and certainly one of his more useful. Cable getting knocked out was concerning, but they he wasn't bleeding anywhere bad enough and he was responsive enough to Frank's (admittedly limited) first aid stimulus checks that Frank was comfortable assuming no permanent damage had been done.

The problem is, as big of a fuck up as it was to have two thirds of a unit fall, Frank had still had fun. He enjoyed the chance to show off a little, maybe, enjoyed the obnoxious wolf-whistle from Wilson, anticipated with a certain squirming eagerness the praise he knew he could expect from Cable when he picked the job out of Frank's head later. The problem is, he liked working with these idiots so well that even a fucked up job was a 'good job' in the end as long as they all walked away from it.

And they all would, this time, even if they were going to have to hole up in a borrowed cabin to wait out the snow storm that was shrieking down the mountain. It was absurdly cold already, none of them kitted out for it because they'd banked on this being a quick and easy bit of S&D with Cable 'porting them back to civilization at the end. Now the enemy's base was a smoking crater and there was a blizzard bearing down on them, and Frank was running back down the mountain in a stolen UTV with one of his teammates strapped across the back and the other sitting beside him bitching about the lack of radio, and Frank has no intention of pulling the plug on this.

He should. He knows he should. After all the bullshit, this single fuck up should be a wake up call. They all made it this time and they still won in the end, but how many more fuck ups like this before that wasn't the case? 

Frank had allowed himself to get sucked in too close to both these men, and the fact that he was willingly carrying two of Wilson's severed limbs with him in a convenient bag found before he blew the enemy site to kingdom come was testament enough to that. 

It takes four trips from the UTV into the cabin to get everyone and everything in. Frank has to drag Cable, bulky frame extra heavy from all the metal. Wade at the very least can lean against Frank and hobble with him, conscious, but then Wade clings onto him and drags him into a thank-you kiss, messy and half-mocking, mask barely pulled out of the way, and Frank has to shove the little jackass off him. Which of course results in Wade sprawled on the floor, laughing and making Frank feel like a prize jackass as he runs back out for the bag with Wilson's severed arm and leg, and then once more for everyone's salvaged weapons and gear. By the fourth run, the snow is already falling steady and thick, and the wind is gusting hard enough that it rocks the UTV where it sits, and Frank doesn't really have time to worry about whether he should move the vehicle further from the cabin or not, because it's too cold to linger and he's got better things to worry about in terms of their survival.

None of the initial stuff is pleasant. He finds candles in a cupboard, and then, extra lucky, he finds an old battery-powered Coleman camping lantern that floods the main room with light. It's cold enough he can see everyone's breath, and Wade's draped himself against Cable's back, remaining arm and leg draped over him to create as much contact as possible with his warm body. When he notices Frank looking, he manages a sort of half-assed writhing grind against Cable’s unconscious frame, making a lewd comment about assumed consent and somnophilia that Frank disregards out of hand. Somewhere along the line, he learned to tell when Wilson's talking because he's upset or in pain rather than just to hear the sound of his own voice.

He should probably start a fire in the wood stove first off, but the longer he waits to deal with Wilson's severed limbs the worse that process will be. He dithers for a second, weighing the options as he digs through the big tool box he'd found stashed by the camping lantern and coming up with a large roll of silvery duct tape.

"Sit up," Frank says, grousing. “Get over here, let's get this done.”

Frank's got a strong constitution and this is certainly not the first time he's helped Wilson reattach limbs, but that doesn't make it any less disgusting or frustrating. Wilson switches between grit-teeth, held-breath silence and biting, acid commentary that could be considered jokes -- violent, tasteless jokes, but jokes -- to cover his own discomfort while Frank carefully cuts away the new skin trying to grow over the stumps. It's grim work, feels more like butchery than medicine, and Wilson cracking not-jokes about saving the scraps for 'a little Donner Party Stew' didn't really help.

By the end of it, Frank’s fingers are wet and clumsy, knuckles stiff with congealed blood he won’t be able to wash off until he gets a fire going, and his post-job-well-done good mood is waning in the face of Wilson’s snark and Cable’s continued unconsiousness. He’s never particularly enjoyed the moments where he wound up the guy in charge, always better at following reasonable orders than determining the flow of tasks on his own. All he can think, peeling Wilson’s drying, chilled blood off his fingers to try and regain some dexterity, is that he should have started the fire first. 

It's unpleasant business and Frank's glad to be done with it. More glad when Wade's relentless babbling trails off into his repeating the word 'duct tape' after Frank threatens to use the rest of what they've got on hand to silence him.

Cable's face has gentled by this point, no longer tight as if in pain, relaxed enough to almost look peaceful, if not for the dour lines around his mouth the the furrow ever-present between his brows. With him, Frank's unsure what to do except keep him warm and watch for worst-case shit, seizing or choking or his breathing to stop. Once he's done with getting Wilson taped up, Wade carefully lays back down and curls himself close to Cable, not exactly cuddling and staring at Frank through his mask as if challenging him.

What exactly he's challenging, Frank's not sure. He's never met a man as clingy, cuddly, or all around touch-starved as Wade Wilson, so honestly it would probably be weirder if he _wasn't_ hanging all over Cable while he's got the free reign to do so, and given the freezing temperature and need to keep all of them warm when none of them are dressed for long-term exposure to this weather, he's actually making himself more useful than Frank would usually be able to make him.

"There's a wood stove in the back room," Frank says after second. "And a bed."

"Oh, Mr. Castle, taking advantage in the middle of a natural disaster," Wade starts, and even with the stupid fucking mask in the way, Frank can see the mock-scandalized expression on those gnarled features, the way Wade's eyes would be glinting, some of the snarling mean that came with more painful, debilitating injuries bled away. "We can't leave our chaperone sleeping out here alone."

Frank's lips pinch together and he resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose because he _knows_ Wilson is acting dumb on purpose, trying to get a rise out of him, trying to be annoying because he's pissed off about how the job went down. Wilson always gets extra obnoxious if Cable is injured or on the few occasions where he's been injured enough to be unable to help much with the job proper. In this case, both had happened, and Wilson’s predictably agitated. 

It's still obnoxious, whether Frank can understand the idiot logic to it or not. 

"I'm gonna get a fire started. When I come back, you can help me move him."

That's as close to patience as Frank's going to scrounge up right now. He walks away and into the back room of the cabin before Wade can find some other asshole comment to make, taking the Coleman lamp with him and setting it on the floor between the rooms so they both get some light. 

Moving helps. Wade's not the only one irritated by how the job went down, and he definitely doesn't have a monopoly on getting pissed off when Cable does stupid martyr shit that gets him hurt.

Frank's just seen enough men throw themselves into more than they can handle for the sake of their comrades, knows how to deal with it. At least Cable wasn't dead, that was a positive to hold on to. And if he _had _blown some mental fuse straining himself with that telekinetic shit against whatever the hell it was the now-dead goons had thrown at him, there was no point in wasting his efforts by letting a sour attitude get him or Wilson killed. 

Better to be moving. Better to step up, take charge, do what he's gotta do to make sure everyone goes home with all their bits intact. Not his forte, but manageable.

There's plenty of wood stacked against the back wall, seasoned and dry enough to work with. The stove is clean and the chimney looks stable, and Frank's lit enough wood stoves to be able to get the job done quick enough. The cabin is bare bones, nothing in the way of edible supplies and sparse on furnishings or decor, but it was in good repair and didn't seem to be bleeding too much heat. That's why Cable had shown it to him. 

The chest at the foot of the bed has a number of old quilts and several sets of sheets, and there's a couple shelves that hold books on the wall over a low dresser. The main room of the cabin had a purely evil looking futon, a big table with a bench budged under it on either side, and a camp stove to cook on. 

It was the kind of cabin someone who didn't mind going off the grid for a while kept. No electric, not even a gas generator, and the outhouse was just a dozen feet out from the back door.

Once the fire is going, heat pouring off and into the room, Frank sets about getting the bed made. 

There's not a whole lot to do, certainly nothing complicated. The sheets are cold to the touch and Frank's hands are dirty with soot and worse, leaving marks on pale, cheap cotton as he layers every single blanket he can find on the bed. It's not the biggest bed -- not even as big as the one Nathan keeps in his ugly Long Island high rise apartment -- but it's sturdy and doesn't complain too much during the process of Frank lifting and arranging everything. 

It's big enough. Judging by how loud the howling of the wind is, how fast and heavy the snow is falling, and how slowly the room is heating, they're going to need to get cozy to stay warm anyway. He pulls back one side of the blankets so it'll be easier to get Cable under them, and then quits hesitating, going back to the big main room to get the other two.

Wade is very obviously doing better, though he looks colder now, even with the mask on. He's sitting up with Cable dragged into his lap, curled around him. Most of his belts and strapped-on weapons are piled on the floor beside them, including his precious katanas, and Cable has been similarly disarmed. Wilson has made some effort to patch his suit with the duct tape, covering as much skin as possible, and he looks at Frank as Frank approaches, leaning against the edge of the futon.

"I can't remember if more or less clothes is better in these situations, but in the spirit of horny survival fics, I think we should strip him," he says, and there's still that brittle, thorny quality to the joking tone that puts Frank's teeth on edge. Wilson's bothered over something, and Frank's never been the guy anyone should turn to for comfort but that's been the issue from the get-go with them: Wilson takes comfort just from people sticking around him, a desperate old fighting dog eager to be petted and gentled but impossible to ever fully rehabilitate. He likes Frank, for whatever reason, and Frank doesn't push him away any more than he pushes anyone else, so to Wade he's a comfort just by being there.

Frank sighs, making it a huff of exhaustion instead of annoyance, and gestures at Cable's booted feet. "Boots off. Stupid scarf thing too. Otherwise, layers are a good thing."

He says it with authority he doesn't feel, because honestly he doesn't know. His survival training was mostly for desert combat situations. You didn't strip out of your clothes unless you were certain you were safe enough long term, ready at all times to have to roll out as quick as possible. Stranded, you kept as much clothes on as possible, layers of protection against both enemy and elements. Wilson wants to do his weird shit about this all being some kind of fantasy plot, a horny comic book or piece of fiction, and Frank's honestly not in the mood to suss out how to distract him from being weird.

Wilson's not the only one put out of sorts by seeing his team injured, and given that Cable had gotten dropped and Wilson had taken injuries that would have killed anyone else, while the worst Frank had was a sprained wrist and some scabbed over scrapes and bruises, there's plenty for Frank to feel shitty about. When he came out of a situation fine but others were hurt, he was inclined to be irritable himself, even when it was totally pointless. 

"Hey, be nice to the infinity scarf. He could be in blue spandex. Yellow caterpillars on his chest." 

Honestly, Frank tries not to think about it much when Wade goes off like this, because there's not a whole lot to do about it. Frank doesn't want to think about the ways Wilson is not crazy any more than he wants to labour over the ways he _is_. It's all pointless. 

They work together to get Nathan's boots off, leaving his thick socks on, and divesting him of things that are only going to get tangled. The scarf goes, and the fingerless gloves and his weird one-sleeved jacket. Wilson is bitingly cheerful as Frank helps him to his feet and then they both get an arm around Cable. Frank had moved Nathan on his own, dragging him to the UTV, and his back was going to be pissed about it sooner than later. He's grateful for Wade's patient help even if it comes with ceaseless, pointless jawing. 

"Oh that's cozy," Wade purrs as they stumble into the back room, which is already considerably warmer. "You sure we're not supposed to get naked for better body heat transference?" Wade is surprisingly careful in helping lower Nathan onto the bed, and then stands there watching Frank push him toward the center so they can climb in on either side of their unconscious comrade. "I'm pretty sure these fics are supposed to be at _least _ninety percent porn, and we've already wasted about two-kay scene setting."

"Take your boots off and get in bed," Frank says, sitting on the end of the bed farthest into the room so he can follow his own advice. He intends to give Wade the warmer side of the bed, closer to the stove, not expecting Wilson to notice or, if he does, expecting his selfish, hedonistic tendencies to keep him from making anything of it. 

Instead, he gets Wade standing in front of him, barefoot because of course the disgusting idiot wasn't wearing socks under his boots. Half the time he wasn't wearing underwear, either, and when he was -- well. Frank studiously doesn't follow that train of thought any further, focusing instead on Wade putting his hands on his hips and tapping his toes in exaggerated impatience. 

"People who can get frostbite stay on the hot side of the bed," Wade says, and Frank thinks he could -- maybe should -- point out that Wade can get frostbite just as easily as anyone else, and that it will hurt the same for him as anyone else, even if it will heal, but there's not really much point. Not when Wade will just mock him for being a martyr, make some lewd suggestion for what they could do with the wood of the cross Frank's nailing himself to.

Frank nods and lets Wade pull him to his feet once his boots are off, and they both crawl into bed on either side of Nathan, shoving up against him with the pile of blankets pulled up high, trying to keep warm.

There's a long enough stretch of blissful silence for Frank's heart to steady, his breathing to slow, for him to think he might be able to slip into an exhausted sleep before his own brain or Wilson's mouth conspire to keep him awake. Sometimes Wilson drops off to sleep damn near instantly, and when he can't, he sometimes can bite his tongue long enough to let Frank fall asleep anyway.

Something like a doze settles over Frank, pulling him steadily toward sleep, and then Wilson nudges his cold hand against Frank's, working carefully to lace their fingers together over Cable's stomach. For the sake of peace, Frank tolerates this without complaint, and then Wilson starts talking, real low, like he's being mindful of the man sleeping between them even as he's ensuring Frank won't be joining him. 

“You know there’s like. Oodles of fic out there about all three of us getting dirty, but not a lot all together. The real fun stuff is mostly just you two. _ Some people _ have too much taste to write me, which is fair, I’d rather see two trucks mashin’ potatoes too, but --”

Frank groans, tightening the grip of his fingers around Wade's in warning. 

"Ahh, go to sleep," Wade says, gently scolding. He says it like Frank's trying to avoid doing it, indulgent but scolding like he's talking to a bratty kid or a pet he can't quite get trained. Frank thinks, dimly, that he should be more irritated -- maybe outright angry -- about that, but honestly, he's tired, and it's warm under the covers, a luxury he'd have to leave to do anything about Wilson taking extra liberties. 

Closing his eyes, letting himself start to relax again, Frank can't help sparing a thread of focus for the soft way Wade's thumb is rubbing against the side of his hand, right in the curve between palm and thumb. He's got his gloves on still -- as far as Frank could tell, other than his boots and at least the majority of his weapons, Wade hadn't undressed at all, leaving even the mask on, which couldn't be comfortable to sleep in.

His choice. Wade'll do what he'll do and Frank's not in the business of trying to stop him, most of the time. And the grip of the glove feels kind of nice, soft but griping firmer than skin to skin would. 

Frank drifts. Right on the edge of sleep, he hears Wade sigh and pick back up again, talking.

"There's pages and pages of work about Nate 'n me, but we've had a whole comic run together, and a movie, and some annuals, and our relationship has like, pathos and a devoted fan base, so it makes sense more of the fans focus on that. You 'n me only have a couple one-offs in the comics, and since Nate's fucking short, this ain't comics, so whoever's writing this is pulling it out of their ass, which is _fine _and all, beats you shooting me in the head every time you get tired of my voice or I get too close to unraveling the details of the plot, it's just --"

His voice is a low, steady mutter. It's obvious he's talking _to_ Frank, but Frank gets the impression it's not really anything he's meant to hear. Trouble is, talking is one of those things that puts hooks in Frank's brain even when he's so close to falling asleep it seems impossible not to go under.

"-- trouble is that none of these idiots have put in together that we do this little team up sometimes. These assholes were ready for Nate with that feedback thing that put him in hopefully-temporary brain timeout, and anyone with enough hardware is prepared for me, even if I don't _always _show up with Nate, but they never expect you because no one figures on us all working together."

Frank's gotten pretty good, after all of the time he's spent with Wade, jobs worked and odd evenings when he turns up with food and nights tangled up, fucking or sacked out on the bed or the couch -- too much time, really, _not_ to have gotten good at telling when Wade's rambling has a point and when he's talking just because he needs noise. This, Frank's pretty sure, is the the former pretending to be the latter, which usually happens when he's trying to say something he considers too sentimental.

"-- not that watching you work isn't a joy, you know, I'm very big on the competent hyper-violence thing, I probably would have been hard enough to pound nails earlier if, you know, all my blood hadn't been preoccupied rushing out of the severed limbs. Just, one of these days it's going to be you the villain du jour has a special toy set aside for, and you're not using brain footsie or a healing factor, you're just a good old fashioned efficient murder boy, which means when you show up one day and they're ready for the three of us the toy set aside for you is just going to be the kind of thing that turns normal people to pulp --"

It's weird, thinking Wade might be worried. Worried about Frank, worried about the future, worried about anything. He spends so much time acting like some kind of kid who can't manage to focus for anything, darting from impulse to impulse like nothing matters, the odd moments when he peels away from the 'too crazy to care' act always end up feeling so bizarre. So sincere, but so bizarre.

"-- normal guns turn normal people into all kinds of jelly-filled baked goods, I'm very well aware of that, but if they're starting to make toys that turn Nate into sleepy-time dead weight, and they're ready or lucky enough to get one up on me, one of these days someone's gonna follow the breadcrumbs and realize that sometimes we have back up and back up is you and Nate always comes back when he dies, even if it takes a bajillion exhausting plot lines to get to that part, and I'm, you know, Like This, but if they bring out a special whammy device just for Murder Boys with Skull Fetishes, you're not going to be unconscious between me and Nate."

For a moment, Wade goes quiet. His thumb continues that firm, absent-minded rubbing against Frank's hand, and Frank lets himself drift in the quiet, waiting. If he falls asleep before Wade gets around to whatever point he's rambling himself too, well, it's not like Wade actually thinks he's talking to him, even if he's phrasing everything like he is.

Wade sighs, and the bed creaks softly as he shifts the way he's laying, nudging himself closer to Nate. 

"Nate's gonna wake up. He is. He always does, and he acts like nothing happened. Bounces back, not like me, but well enough. Hell, this won't even give him a pretty new scar, unless it fucked him up bad enough to give the TO an opening, but judging by the lack of writhing agony from him, I'd say if it did, it wasn't enough to really matter. He's got all his future toys and big-brain powers. You came out without any major ouchies this time, which I know makes you extra angsty for a while, but it's better than the alternative."

Frank huffs and buries his face against Nathan's shoulder, tightening his fingers against Wade's again. Wade's thumb stops circling, and he grips back, just for a moment. Maybe it comforts him, Frank doesn't know. It shuts him up for another short while.

Then he says, almost thoughtfully, "I like this, but not this part. I like us all together, even though no one, including the author, ever seems to know when the planets align for it to happen. Maybe it's safer for us to always be paired off. I really don't wanna start seeing you in some kinda after-life 'between the living and the dead' thing, which the movies imply happens when I... like people enough. You totally fuck up all the tropes -- snowed-in fics are supposed to be horny, you goddamn wet blanket -- and you're grumpy like, one-hundred percent of the time. But I think if you kick it in the middle of a job with us, I'm gonna go absolutely off the deep end at this point."

Quiet again. The fire in the stove crackles, the wind outside howls. Frank drifts, his fingers laced tight with Wade's, resting over Nathan's middle. He's not going to remember half of Wade's rambling rant, but he thinks he'll probably remember the point of it, judging by the tight little knot of warmth tangled in his heart. 

Wade says, sleepy now, "When Nate wakes up, I'm jumping his bones. You can help or you can butt out, but it's happening before we go anywhere else."

Nonsense, like so much of what comes out of the idiot's mouth. "Sh'dup," Frank manages, mumbling against Nathan's shoulder, and Wade squeezes his hand again. Nathan, between them, sighs and shifts, asleep still but now seeming _just_ asleep. Frank finds himself smiling, just a little, fond as he finally drifts to sleep himself.


End file.
